


Sit Next To Me

by Indieblue



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Panic Attacks, Songfic, mainly fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-15 13:55:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19297102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Indieblue/pseuds/Indieblue
Summary: "Pale hair, grey eyes that held a cold tempest, a sharp, angular face. There is nothing soft about him. He was pristine porcelain inside and out, polished, yet, Ron had seen the marble crack, he’d seen Draco’s emotions get the better of him. He’d seen the boy be rash, and emotionally charged before. However, he’d never witnessed the Slytherin be kind."





	Sit Next To Me

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written and posted on tumblr for a Valentine's Day challenge. Song prompt: Sit Next to Me by Foster the People.
> 
> My tumblr: indiebluecrown.tumblr.com
> 
> Please let me know what you think ;)

_Yeah, come over here and sit next to me_

_We can see where things go naturally_

_Just say the word and I’ll part the sea_

_Just come over here and sit next to me_

_And I’ll take you high_

* * *

    He hadn’t even seen him coming.

   If you’d sat him down _yesterday_ , and told him that today’s events were transpiring, right before his bright blue eyes, he would have told you that you were _bloody barmy_ and to piss off.

   He hadn’t seen him coming because he isn’t supposed to even be _friends_ with him, much less be thinking about how regal and pretty he looks.

   They are drastically different, _so_ different, it is as if they aren’t even the same species. Yet, in a way, they are the same.

   When you rip away all the opulence _he’d_ enjoyed growing up, and brush away the struggle Ron had endured—the lack of money, the hand-me-down clothes and toys, being the sixth son and trying desperately to live up to his older brothers’ legacies—when you break it all down, and reduce them to only their fundamental qualities, they aren’t that different.

   Nightmares, nightmares plague both of them, Ron knows that, he doesn’t have to ask Draco to know, he can see it in his eyes: the haunted, hollow glaze that passes over the Snake’s features randomly is proof of such.

   Both far too young to have seen what they had, but regardless, they _had_ seen it, they’d seen it _all._ Now all that is left is to deal with the aftermath. You would think surviving the war, and _living_ after it would be the easy part, but somehow, it isn’t. It simply, isn’t.

   Most days are bright, most days are okay, but days like today—where Ron feels the all consuming blackness encroaching on his vision, drowning him, plunging him into the depths as it clogs his nostrils and sews his mouth shut—those days are nigh impossible.

   Ron abruptly stands up, the sound of the chair screeching against the ground stabs at his ears, _I need to get out of here._ Ron hastily flees the classroom, muttering something to Professor McGonagall on his way.

   Everything is a blur, he can’t breathe, and his hand is trembling as he sticks it out and feels for a wall—and within moments his fingers are trailing across the cold stone.

   Ron doesn’t get very far before he collapses against the same said wall, and it anchors him as he presses the full length of his back against it.

   He senses _his_ presence moments later, or is it an eternity, he doesn't know. The figure comes from his left—from down the corridor—and quietly kneels before him.

   Pale hair, grey eyes that held a cold tempest, a sharp, angular face. There is nothing soft about him. He was pristine porcelain inside and out, polished, yet, Ron had seen the marble crack, he’d seen Draco’s emotions get the better of him. He’d seen the boy be rash, and emotionally charged before. However, he’d never witnessed the Slytherin be kind.

   Until then.

   Ron ducks his head—his throat is constricting and everything is just _too_ much—the last person he wants to see is Draco Malfoy.

   “Look at me,” Draco requests calmly, the syllables smoothly rolling off his tongue.

   “Piss off,” Ron manages to get out, digging his fingers into his scalp. _Go away, just go away._

A small part of him is glad for the company, but his pride quickly squashes that notion.

   A frustrated kiss of teeth, and an exasperated sigh later, Draco inches an infinitesimal bit closer, “Ronald, can you stop being obstinate and just look at me.” The boy’s tone is not unkind, but it most certainly is not warm.

   Pride dictates that he waits at least three seconds, but he does as Draco asks. Ron’s eyes lock on those of whom he would have once called a sodding prick and one of his enemies, and the first thought he has is, _since when did Draco’s eyes have blue in them?_ Flecks of dark blue that are normally lost in the sea of grey.

   Ron swallows thickly, and Draco says, in a serene tone, “good. Now breathe. _Slowly_.”

   Ron follows Draco’s instructions, until he eventually calms down.

   The moment he does, it’s like Draco can sense it, and he immediately straightens up—brushing off the knees of his trousers—and promptly he strides away.

   Ron doesn’t ask why he did it—despite part of his brain needling him about it—instead he says, “thanks, Malfoy.”

   No response comes from Draco, he simply continues walking away, cloak billowing out behind him.

 Ron takes a few moments to gather his wits about him, dragging in a lungful of air before he hops up.

   McGonagall doesn't comment on his curt exit, she merely pauses when he returns and waits until he is firmly planted in his seat before resuming her lecture.

   She understands.

   He glances at his desk and groans at the mess he made: he’d spilled some ink in his haste to get out of there, and with a heavy sigh, he vanishes the small pool.

   Ron can _feel_ their concerned gazes burning holes into the back or his head, so he peers over his shoulder at Hermione and Harry—Hermione is sitting beside him and Harry behind her.

   “I’m fine,” Ron mouths, shaking his head. The staring persists, the expression on both of their faces indicating that they are wholly unconvinced that he is indeed, _fine_.

   Hermione leans over, quietly holding her notes out to him, and Ron makes a droll face. The lioness narrows her eyes, and then jabs his bicep with her finger, _hard_ , before dropping them onto the edge of his desk.

   _Stubborn witch,_ Ron grumbles internally, dipping the tip of his quill in ink before he begins to jot down what he missed.

Halfway through he realises, Draco is supposed to be in this class—Draco _had_ been in here when Ron came into the classroom earlier.

   Ron’s eye twitches upon the realisation that he’d paid enough attention to Malfoy’s whereabouts to know all of this.

   He shakes the knowledge from his head, and continues catching up, he isn’t going to let Draco Malfoy occupy his thoughts any longer than necessary.

   Ron lasted all of five minutes before he found himself thinking again about how _pale_ Draco was, and he was certainly not one to talk, he was the very definition of pale.

   Draco’s skin however was like polished ivory, like a smooth stone statue—and just like a statue, whilst it was beautiful to look at, with one good shove it could topple and smash into pieces.

* * *

    _I wonder how he got them_ , Draco muses, watching the ginger in his peripherals: the Gryffindors had just finished up Quidditch practice, and Ron had just tugged his shirt up and over his head, leaving his bare torso on full display—his pale torso, littered with freckles and covered in scars.

   Draco is drawn to the harsh pink lines that wrap around Ron’s sinewy arms—he has no idea how the boy had acquired them, all he knew was it was during the scuffle in the Department of Mysteries.

   Draco is partially obscured by the shadows of the arch above him: he is by the Slytherin changing rooms, his broom neatly placed on the ground beside him as he begins his stretches.

   Draco proceeds to stretch his arm high above his head—the muscles taut and stiff from practice a few days ago—whilst scrutinising the ginger.

   Ron shaved off most of his hair before term resumed in September, and it’s only now started to grow back—it’s short and spiky, and slick with sweat.

   Ron tosses his shirt over his shoulder, broom in hand as he turns towards the Gryffindor changing rooms, but before he does, he pauses, and he glances over his shoulder.

   The bright blue eyes hone in on him, and his smile is still in place from laughing boisterously at some joke Potter made. Ron’s smile swiftly fades, and in its place is an intense look that unsettles Draco, knocks him off balance.

   Then, Ron does the strangest thing. He waves—not an exuberant, friendly wave, but a cordial gesture of acknowledgement.

   Draco’s mouth runs dry, and his chest tightens, but he mentally prods his motor functions to resume their duties and he musters up a jerk of his head.

  Ginny jumps onto Ron’s back, her voice booming around the Pitch as she cheerily commands, “onwards!”

   Little Red has apparently struck up a flirtation with his best mate, one of them—Theodore Nott—and he isn’t sure how he feels about that. Theo is tempered steel where Ginny is a dragon, serenity where she is chaos, but, it makes sense; they compliment each other, like a harmonious song that is simultaneously a cacophony of unordered noise.

   Draco stares after Ron’s retreating form and he pretends he doesn’t understand why there is a prickly feeling in his chest, why his palms are tingling, why his body feels like it’s ablaze.

* * *

    Ron is suspicious the first time Draco does it.

   Draco sits next to him in Transfiguration one day, and Ron can’t focus for the _entire_ lesson: finding the way Draco’s bangs falling forward onto his forehead as he writes notes, or the way he bites his lips whilst he is concentrating on something, or the languid way he reclines in his chair, _far_ more fascinating.

   _Then_ he does it again, and again, and again.

   Ron is slowly losing it, because Transfiguration is getting increasingly difficult, and because of Draco’s proximity, he simply cannot pay attention in class.

   Bless Hermione and Harry, otherwise he would be lost—a fish out of water, flailing about, and choking on air. Neither of them have made any comments thus far, but this simply cannot continue. So, Ron decides to do something about it.

   As per the norm, Draco flies out of the class before anyone else, yet still makes it look graceful, carrying himself with poise.

   “I’ll see you guys later,” Ron calls to Harry and Hermione—both shrugging and gathering the rest of their things—before he sprints after Draco.

   Draco is already rounding the corner, but Ron is determined to get to the bottom of this. It makes no ruddy sense.

   Ron sharply takes the corner, only to brake hard, so as to not crash into Draco—who is cavalierly leaning up against the wall, waiting, waiting for _him_.

   “Yes, Weasley?” Draco drawls, regarding him impassively, his book bag slung over his shoulder.

   Polished marble, marble that Ron wants to crack, if only to see how he reacts.

   Ron stalks towards him, standing inches away from the other wizard, and he places a hand beside Draco’s head, leaning against it slightly, “why did you start sitting next to me?”

   “Is that all?” Draco rolls his eyes, “I thought you had something serious to talk about.”

   Draco raises a hand, placing it on Ron’s chest long enough to shove him backwards so that he can sidestep the ginger.

   Ron grits his teeth together, and his arm shoots out and grabs ahold of Draco’s wrist.

   Draco stiffens, cautiously turning back to face Ron, “what?” The pale haired boy asks harshly.

   “Shut up,” Ron snarls, surging forward and claiming Draco’s lips.

   Draco lets out a surprised gasp, and he doesn’t respond for a _long_ moment, and briefly, Ron fears he misread all of this, but then, in a glorious, unforgettable moment, Draco melts.

   Draco’s hands slide up and onto his head, his fingers pressing into Ron’s scalp, brushing across the short hairs there, his lips parting, and Ron hesitantly slips his tongue into Draco’s mouth.

   Ron’s hands are on Draco’s hips, and in a movement far too smooth for him to have done it, he walks Draco back towards the wall, trapping him against it.

   Ron pulls away just enough to get some air, and watches Draco’s eyes crack open a sliver—molten silver gleaming with midnight blue, and Ron grins breathlessly.

   “Why did you do that?” Draco asks reticently, tongue swiping across his bottom lip, and he averts his eyes.

   “Cause I wanted to,” Ron shrugs, closing any remaining distance between them, so they are chest-to-chest, and Ron swears he can hear Draco’s heartbeat, or maybe it was his own, pumping in his ears loudly, and marching along smartly.

   “Good,” Draco smiles, it’s a gentle smile, where just the corner of his lips turn up, but it sends Ron’s heart galloping.

   Draco is the one to kiss him this time, and tongues of fire stroke Ron’s insides, he was wrong, Draco isn’t cold, not at all. Nor is he polished marble—Ron doesn’t smash his seemingly frosty exterior, he simply revels in his hidden warmth.

   “Scars,” Draco whispers against Ron’s lips.

   “What?”

   “On your arms.”

   Ron reluctantly parts from the other wizard, quirking a brow, “yea?”

   “How did you get them?”

   “Why?”

   “Cause I want to know, you _prat_ ,” Draco snaps, pressing his lips into a grim line, his hands falling onto Ron’s shoulders.

   “Brains, Department of Mysteries. Tell you all about it later,” Ron promises, his thigh moving in between Draco’s, and somehow he finds himself even _closer_ than before. Draco inhales sharply, and Ron tilts his head whilst grinning cockily, his tongue toying with his canine on the right side of his mouth. “Later?”

   “Later,” Draco agrees, snarling as he grabs fistfuls of Ron’s shirt and insistently kisses him once more.

   They clash, and collide, and they are _so_ different, yet it works. Yet, they fit. All their jagged and broken edges neatly slot into each other’s.

   After that Ron _definitely_ cannot concentrate in Transfiguration, especially not with Draco Malfoy sitting next to him.


End file.
